


How the Heart Beats and the Sands Change

by Captains_Orders



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Healing, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Referenced Trauma, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 10:19:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14400102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captains_Orders/pseuds/Captains_Orders
Summary: Major Miles is tasked with leading the restoration of Ishval, and while a long road lies ahead of him, he has help from unexpected places. With the reformed serial killer Scar beside him, he learns not only about the culture of his people, but about himself as well.





	How the Heart Beats and the Sands Change

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to this fic I had no intention of writing but did anyway.  
> I recently finished Brotherhood for the first time (finally) and was more than a little disappointed to see so little for this ship and decided to offer my meager writing to the world. First I was going to write a oneshot, and then a short few chapters, and now I have no idea what this is going to be, I'm just letting it go in my head. This chapter especially was more than I was willing to write, and is really more of a prologue, but deeper foundations wanted to be laid than what I originally had planned, and so here we are.  
> I hope I can do not only this ship but its fantastic source material and characters justice, and I hope you enjoy it along the way.  
> Thanks for reading~
> 
> Unbetad

In the twenty-four hours following the aftermath of the Promised Day, Major Miles receives two phone calls that change everything. The first is from General Armstrong summoning him to Central effective immediately, the other, much to his surprise, is from Colonel Mustang requesting the same thing. Ever the dutiful soldier Miles makes a point to join the first motorcade headed back with General Grumman at the front, no doubt eager to stake his own claim in the recent ruin of command. Still marveling at their own lives and somewhat fearing what awaited them in Central, the combined forces begin to pick up the pieces, and those with rank and trust make their way into the city. 

The ride is quiet, the Briggs men with him in the car somber as the countryside passes them by. It's the sort of quiet that accompanies people when they know they won’t like what they see, the same way he felt when he visited home on leave for the first time after the Civil War and found his grandfather absent. Miles doesn’t like not knowing what to expect, none of the Briggs men do, it's what keeps them alive, and it makes the trip feel like it takes an eternity. He passes the time mulling over the words of his superiors. General Armstrong had been brief and blunt as usual, and while he had little experience with Colonel Mustang, the man hadn’t sounded all that great, but then again he had asked him to meet at the hospital. Of course he supposes he’ll find out soon enough, as Central comes into full view, not quite as ruinous as it could have been, but still showing the evidence of an all out civil war. This would be the last, he hoped, the first step towards the Amestris he dreamed of helping change. 

Once the caravan stops outside of Central Command, what’s left of it that is, he’s the first out of the car, bee-lining for the nearest weary looking soldier he sees. He can’t tell if the man’s one of Mustang’s or Grumman’s, but the soldier snaps to attention when he notices his approach. 

“I need to see General Armstrong,” he says by way of greeting. A nervous look crosses the soldiers face.

“Sorry Major, but the General’s not here, she’s at the hospital. Took some hits trying to hold Central Command from what I hear.” Some surprise must leak into his expression despite his best efforts to remain blank, and the man quickly continues. “Nothing serious of course. Do you need an escort?”

“No, that’s not necessary. Thank you for the briefing. Carry on.” He moves away, back towards the car and lost in thought. Might have been an important detail to add that the General was in the hospital, but showing weakness of any kind wasn’t her way, wasn’t the Briggs way. Typical, he’d have to ask Buccaneer for the details, chances were the General wouldn’t. She was probably already strong arming her way out of the hospital whatever her injuries may be. He almost misses passing General Grumman, but has enough presence of mind to salute as he goes by. 

“Didn’t expect those two to leave the best seat in the house open for the taking,” Grumman muses, twirling the end of his mustache as he looks up at the ruined front of Central Command. “But I guess bein’ old and slow does have some advantages.” There’s a glint in his eyes as he laughs quietly to himself before looking back at Miles. “Give General Armstrong my regards, best make a quick recovery if she’s to help me fix this mess. And Mustang too. I’ll have to drop by later.”

“I’ll be sure to pass it on, General.” Miles excuses himself quickly, and Grumman waves him off as he makes his way back to the car.  
By the time they make it to the hospital it's late afternoon, the sun just beginning it's long trek beyond the horizon. There's no surprise that the place is crowded, some minor civilian injuries mingled in with a greater number of soldiers. Men and women from every sect of the Amestrian military fill the waiting room with what mostly appear to be cuts and bruises, bandaged and mingling amongst themselves waiting for discharge or admittance. No one seems to take notice of their entrance, that or they simply don’t care, and Miles makes his way to the nearest receptionist the moment her station clears up after ordering his men to stay put.

“I’m Major Miles from Briggs, I need to see General Armstrong immediately.” The woman looks at him for a long moment, and then stands quickly. 

“Yes of course, sir, right this way.” She leads him through the sterile white winding halls of the hospital at a brisk pace, past room after room of patients. 

“Can you tell me what brought the General in?”

“No offense, Major, but you’ll see soon enough.” As she says it they turn the next corner, and she leads him to the first door on the left, flanked by two Briggs men who salute the moment they see him. “General Armstrong was awake last we checked, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind a visitor.” 

“One more thing,” he starts as she makes to turn away.

“Yes?”

“I need to see Colonel Mustang as well.”

“Oh, I’ll have to check on his condition, but I can escort you to his room when you’re done.”

“Thank you. At ease, men,” he adds as he passes them to the door, knocks once, and with a deep breath he steps inside, door clicking softly behind him.  
General Armstrong sits in bed, staring out the nearby window but turns as he enters, expression unreadable as ever. A bandage above her eye draws his attention first, then the disarray of her hair. In all the years he’s served under her he’s never once seen Olivier Mira Armstrong with a hair out of place, and it might have been unsettling if it weren’t for the fact that she still managed to look proud and imposing as ever. She turns towards the door as it opens, but there’s no change to the mask of stoicism on her face, though he feels like he sees some relief cross her eye. It’s the first time he’s ever seen her look exhausted, and considering the circumstances, he’s not surprised. 

“You’re later than I expected, Miles,” she says plainly. He snaps a quick salute, boots clicking on the polished floor. 

“Forgive me, General, but there was a misunderstanding in where to meet. You failed to mention the hospital.” 

“Small detail that,” she says with a wave of her hand, the one not currently in a sling. “Alex insisted after we got everything sorted at Central Command, stubborn brat. The Briggs medics could have patched me up just as well. I’ll be leaving tonight if I have anything to say about it.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll talk to the nurse before I visit Colonel Mustang.” She looks up at that, not quite surprised but blatantly intrigued. 

“Mustang summoned you as well?”

“Yes, not even an hour after you did.”

“Interesting…” She smiles, the sort she makes when she figures something out, something she can use to her advantage. “Did he mention why?”

“No, just requested my presence as soon as I was able.”

“Very interesting. We’ll have a full briefing at the Armstrong estate when you’re done with him.”

“Understood, sir.” He shifts his stance, waiting for a dismissal or some other shred of information before he makes the short trek to the Colonel’s room. The need to know how they managed to reverse the effects of the Promised Day weighs heavy on his mind, the cold painful grip of death still too fresh in his memory. “Though I should mention that General Grumman is already in the process of seizing control of Central Command.” Her reaction is dismissive at best.

“No matter, he can have it. Besides, Briggs would fall apart without me.” Miles spares himself a small smile at that.

“True. There’s no one left that has the mettle for Briggs except for the Briggs men. And I doubt Buccaneer would try and fill your shoes. Speaking of, will Buccaneer be joining us at the estate?”

Like a switch the mood changes in the room, and a dark look passes over her face, almost pained. “Captain Buccaneer is dead,” she says finally.

“I see.” They didn’t mourn the dead at Briggs, not openly. Inside they may grieve, but beyond that they must remain cold and harsh as the mountains. Miles doesn’t let the pain of loss show, but he feels it, the loss of a comrade, of a friend, it was hard not to feel. Instead he salutes, something he’s sure Buccaneer would have appreciated. “If there’s nothing else for now, sir.”

“You’re dismissed, Major,” she replies, eyes back on the window, past the vase of gaudy flowers by her bedside. “Just make sure to get me out of this damn hospital.”

“Yes, sir.” He turns on his heel and leaves the room. It's all he can do. 

He exchanges quick words with the nurse outside about the General’s immediate discharge, and while she looks uncertain she doesn’t question his authority. Perhaps she realizes it's not worth the argument, or she fears Armstrong’s infamous wrath, or maybe it's just the fact that there are surly and unfortunately plenty of people in far worse shape then she. After leading him to Mustang’s room further down the hall the nurse slips inside the room ahead of him. It takes a minute, but she exits the room and gives him a nod.

“They’re awake, but please keep it brief, Major, they need to rest.” He wants to ask what ‘they’ implies, but again decides he’ll see soon enough.

“I will, thank you, and please make sure that I can escort General Armstrong home once I’m finished.” 

“I’ll make sure of it,” she says almost reluctantly, but she scampers off to begin the paperwork for General Armstrong’s release without another word.

The room is much the same as the last, bright under the fluorescent lights and the sunlight still streaming in from outside. It’s slightly bigger, two beds tucked against the wall instead of one, but beyond that they’re practically identical.

“Is that really you, Major?” 

“It’s him, Colonel,” the other patient answers before Miles has the chance. He recognizes that voice, and sure enough Riza Hawkeye gives him a tired smile when his eyes fall to her.

“Good, thank you for coming.” Miles salutes, eyes sweeping over both of them. On the surface the Lieutenant bears the worse of the injuries, the bandages on her neck are enough of a giveaway, but the Colonel… he can’t quite tell what's off about him. 

“Of course, sir.” 

“I appreciate it, Major.” There, the way he turns his head towards him but doesn’t quite look at him, and Miles know he can’t see him.  
He’s heard a lot of things about Colonel Mustang over the years. Things about a proud man, smart and tactical, the kind of soldier you expect to be praised as the hero of the Ishvalan Civil War. They’d met a few times briefly before the war, not enough for Miles to care about his well being, they weren’t friends by any means. But still, it wasn’t easy watching such a man in such a state.

“I take you wanted to see me for a reason, Colonel,” he says, curious enough that he’s willing to push the boundaries of polite subordinate respect. Luckily Mustang doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Yes, I have an offer for you, if you’re willing.”

“An offer?” His confusion is hard to hide. Mustang lets out a long breath, the sigh almost loud in the sudden silence of the room. Bandaged hands grasp weakly at the thin sheets as Mustang steals himself and looks him almost in the eye, the dark milky color made glaring behind the lenses of his goggles.

“Some sins can never be forgiven, what we did in Ishval is a blatant reminder of that. There’s nothing we can do to right those wrongs, but that doesn’t mean we can’t help make things better. I plan on doing everything in my power to restore Ishval, and I’d like your help.”

“My help?” Miles feels dizzy, the suddenness of it all nearly knocking him off his feet, heart racing as his dream of changing Amestris is put into motion so suddenly he can hardly believe it. 

“There’s no one better suited for leading the restoration efforts than you, Major. After everything the Ishvalan’s did during the Promised Day it's the least I can do. So, would you head Ishvalan affairs for me?” Miles stares, fighting down the sudden swelling of warmth inside him to keep himself composed, but he can’t hold back a smile.

“I would like nothing more.”

~X~

Night has fallen when they arrive at the Armstrong manor, the place surprisingly intact considering the damage done to the surrounding area. He follows close behind Armstrong as she storms through the mansion grounds and into the grand home itself. A makeshift mess has been set up in the dining room, the men seated around the room stand from their seats to salute the General’s entrance, and sit back at ease when she waves her hand. The chair at the head of the long dining table is empty but is soon filled as Armstrong takes her rightful place, accepting the military rations pushed her way that had been hiding beneath the mansion with the Briggs troops. Miles takes the empty seat beside her, remembers similar instances at Briggs where she would sit with the rest of them in the mess, letting them joke and laugh while she maintained that cold facade of hers. He wonders if she feels Buccaneers absence on her other side as keenly as he does if not more so, and the somber mood in the room lets him know he’s not the only one who’s feeling the large absence.

At the end of their rather silent meal interrupted by sparse discussion with various troops, she leads him through the halls to a room that must be some sort of office, with a large high-backed chair upholstered in rich red fabric and a desk that looks like it's worth more than the house he grew up in. She doesn’t sit, instead she moves to the window, the arm not currently in a sling moving behind her back. 

“I’ll hear that report of yours now, Miles.”

For the next hour they talk, going over details and recounting what happened. From what it sounds like Central Command had been a madhouse and he’s not sure if he’s relieved he wasn’t present or not. There’s an almost guilt that comes with it, but Miles isn’t so naive as to let it take root, so he brushes it off as Armstrong paints a gruesome yet incomplete picture of what happened. 

“So what did Mustang want with you?”

“He wants me to help restore Ishval,” he says. “By heading Ishvalan affairs.” She’s silent for a while, staring at the grain of the wooden desk before she finally meets his eyes again.

“I figured as much, Mustang always was an idealist.” Her uninjured hand opens one of the desk drawers, and after a moment of shuffling and clinking she produces a half empty bottle of amber liqueur and three small glasses. “But I can’t say I don’t like the idea, something like that will look good down the line.” It was all the support Miles needed to know his loyalty was well placed, and the closest thing to open encouragement General Armstrong would ever give. 

“Thank you, General. I’ll make sure to deliver.” She smirks and pours the three drinks. 

“Of that I have no doubt.” They drink in unison, throwing back the strong but smooth alcohol while the third glass remains untouched between them, an unspoken acknowledgement to their fallen comrade. Miles hisses at the burn once he’s done, glass empty as he sets it back down next to Armstrong’s. “I almost forgot,” she says, though he highly doubts she’d forget anything. “There’s something you might be interested in.” She stands suddenly, and Miles does the same, following by habit as she makes her way out of the office and once again leads him through the halls. “I was planning on keeping this to myself, but I think it’s best to let you decide.”

Despite his confusion Miles follows, unsure of what to expect, brows furrowed in concentration as he tries to figure it out while absently following two steps behind her. Eventually they come to another set of grand doors in the West wing of the manor where two Briggs men stand guard rather nervously. They look relieved when they see the General, saluting dutifully before stepping aside. She doesn’t knock, and inside the room is quiet and dark, the sterile smell a stark unsettling contrast to the rest of the manor. He’s not quite sure why she brought them here, but his trust is absolute, and he takes his place beside her quietly, following her gaze down. His eyes widen and he barely manages to stifle a surprised sound at the sight before him. There lying on the bed, heavily bandaged and deeply asleep, was Scar, and suddenly Miles understands.


End file.
